


Shattered Memory

by Arwriter



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Arthur Whump, Family, Friendship, Hurt, Hurt Arthur Morgan, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 08:22:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18406793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arwriter/pseuds/Arwriter
Summary: The fall wasn't that bad, Arthur doesn't understand why everyone is so worried, or why it's suddenly so hard to stand.





	Shattered Memory

It, unfortunately, isn’t the first time Arthur is thrown through a window, and he honestly doubts it will be the last, but it  _ is _ the first time someone decides to make a big deal about it. 

Sure, it always sucks. He ends up bruised and aching on his sides and back, and the glass shards that catch him when he falls dig deep enough to sting for days. 

But it definitely beat getting shot, and he couldn’t afford to simply lay on the ground and feel sorry for himself. 

Last time he’d been in Valentine, thrown right out of the bar window and into the street, scrambling out of the mud before the pain had even registered, Tommy already thundering down the steps, apparently deciding Arthur’s beating hadn’t been quite good enough. 

There wasn’t a bar fight this time. What the hell had he been doing? 

“Arthur!” 

That was Charles. Right, they were working a job...some simple robbery. Someone had found a promising homestead by the looks of the building coming into focus. 

Something had obviously gone wrong, judging by Charles’s bloody knuckles and the way Arthur is still struggling to sit up amongst the window’s remains. 

A man with a gun is suddenly throwing himself at Charles, the fight pulling the other man’s attention away from the broken window. 

He knows Charles can handle himself, and it’s a comforting thought seeing just how much trouble he’s having finding his footing. Maybe he’d fallen a bit harder than he’d originally thought. 

Arthur’s vision is limited, everything blurry and out of focus, and he blinks furiously in an attempt to clear his head. He's just starting to get his boundaries, gradually realizing just how badly everything hurt, when he hears the gunshots coming from inside.

His whole body aches and stings, fingers wet with blood, and his throat feels like it’s on fire. Jesus, he’d only fallen from the first floor. 

The house was already quieting and Arthur tries to push himself to his feet, knees wobbling dangerously as soon as he moves to stand. 

He wants to groan, to silently berate himself for getting put down so quickly, but his voice is quickly cut off by a ragged cough, throat spasming, Arthur squeezing his eyes shut when stabbing jolts of searing pain spread across his neck and chest. 

God, was he really getting  _ that  _ old? He should be able to walk this off without a problem, focus on what was cut up  _ after  _ the shooting had stopped. From what he’d seen, the cuts hadn’t even been that bad. 

“Arth-- _ shit!  _ Arthur!” 

He'd almost forgotten John was here, and he wasn’t going to let the kid watch him struggle to stand after a simple fall. He’d never hear the end of it. Arthur tried again to pull himself up, the pain increasing and the whole world tilting sideways. He can see John hurrying towards him, carefully stepping over glass shards. 

“Arthur, no, just stay where you are. Stay there, Arthur, you’re going to be ok.” 

He wants to tell John to fuck off, that he’s fine. This was far from the worst thing that had happened to him, he doesn’t need to be coddled and reassured like a damn child.

Arthur thought he might have swallowed dirt when he hit the ground, and it feels vaguely like he’s choking, the pain sharp and piercing, and he realizes abruptly that he isn’t getting enough air. 

He tries to swallow, succeeding only in eliciting another painful series of coughs. He moves to reach up and rub at his spasming throat, but suddenly hands are on his wrists, pulling them down to his lap. 

“Careful,” John warns, and if Arthur wasn’t busy choking on his own saliva he would have something to say about the patronizing tone. He could stand up on his own, he just needed a moment for the world to stop spinning. But he can’t talk, and John turns back to the house before he can try again. “Charles! Charles get out here!” 

No, absolutely not. He didn’t need everyone to crowd around and help him stagger to his feet. And if John would just let go of his hands he could work on finding his balance. 

Arthur tries to pry his wrists away, but John only tightens his hold, looking more and more alarmed as Arthur keeps struggling. 

“Stop fighting me,” John orders, only making him fight harder. “Jesus, Arthur stop moving! I’m trying to help!” 

There’s footsteps, someone running towards them, the noise distant and echoey. Arthur risks a glance up, still trying to clear his dry throat, squinting to make out Charles through the glaring sunlight. 

“I don’t know what to do,” John explains, tearing his gaze away from Arthur to watch the other man. “I don’t think he--” 

“You did good,” Charles says, suddenly crouching in front of Arthur. “Keep him still. Don’t let him touch it.” 

It was just a couple of cuts, Arthur could easily walk it off if they just gave him some space and a few minutes to clear the dirt from his throat. 

He renews his struggles, trying to pull away from John’s vice grip on his arms, but suddenly Charles's hands are on his face, keeping his head still. He’s straddling him now, catching Arthur so off guard he freezes, briefly forgetting the pain. 

“Look at me, Arthur,” Charles’s voice is low and controlling, and Arthur finds himself too confused to argue, to do anything but meet his eyes. “It’s going to be alright. I just need you to stay still.” 

It’s the calm in Charles’s voice that lets Arthur realize just how badly his throat hurts, almost positive he’d swallowed something on the way down, still on the verge of choking. 

“The hell are you boys doing to him?” 

Arthur had forgotten they’d brought Sean along, and hearing the amusement in the young man’s voice snaps Arthur back to his senses, picking up his fight against John’s grasp on his arms. 

“Check his satchel for bandages,” Charles says, hands never moving. “Hurry, Sean.” 

“What wrong with--?” 

“Sean,  _ look  _ at him!” John practically yells, Sean’s eyes widening as he moves closer, and Arthur can’t figure out what they’re so worked up about. “Check his satchel, now!” 

There’s a beat of silence, Charles still forcing Arthur to meet his eyes, everybody unnervingly silent. 

“I got them,” Sean says, and that’s  _ all _ he says. Arthur has never heard him so quiet. If falling through a window was all it took to shut the kid up, he might have to start doing it more often. 

And then he coughs again, choking as his neck is assaulted by another spasm, John still refusing to let him press a hand against the sore skin, and he quickly decides it isn’t worth it. 

“Good,” Charles says, lowering his hands until he’s holding Arthur's chin. “Grab his legs, make sure he doesn’t kick. John, get behind him and keep his arms still. I don’t want him moving.” 

There’s pressure against his legs, Sean suddenly a lot heavier than Arthur remembered. He can feel John against his back, holding his arms tight. He’s trapped, suffocated, and he doesn’t understand what they’re doing. He tries to protest, to tell them to get the hell  _ off,  _ but the dirt in his throat still refuses to let him make a noise. 

“Arthur.” Charles is suddenly holding his chin with one hand, forcing him to stare straight ahead. “Look at me. Eyes on me. Promise me you won’t look away.” 

It’s not like he’s being given much choice. He can’t even nod, and his throat’s still too tight to inform them that this isn’t the best way to deal with whatever injuries he has. They can easily do this back at camp, or at least without holding him down. They were acting like this was the first time he’d had to get stitched up. 

He can’t see Charles’s other hand, and his visual range is too limited to make out what anyone is doing, still staring at Charles and his creased brow, watching the deep, silent concentration. 

And then he feels it, the pain in his neck spiking as something moves around, a gentle tug at something embedded in his skin, and Arthur’s eyes widen. 

He’s jerking back before he can stop himself, instinct taking over, trying to pull away from the feeling of glass sliding through his throat. But John’s pressed against him, holding him in place, and Charles’s grip tightens, turns bruising, and Arthur can’t move. 

“Look at me, Arthur,” he orders again, but it's more of a plea than a command this time. “Focus on me, just look at me. Listen to my voice, Arthur, listen to me. You're ok, Arthur just keep looking at me. You’re ok, we’re almost done.” 

He does his best, meeting Charles’s eyes and focusing on his voice, trying to ignore the feeling of something sliding out of his skin, warm blood dripping down his neck and into his collar, but he’s choking, he can’t breathe, he’s going to die with a piece of  _ glass _ in his  _ throat _ . 

He tries to tell them, but talking quickly proves to be futile, and it only makes everything worse as he’s overpowered by another attack of wheezing coughs, tremors wracking his trapped body as he struggles to breathe around the jagged shard. 

“No, Arthur, no,” he hears John say, Arthur barely even able to feel the crushing grasp on his wrists at this point. “Keep breathing, just keep--Jesus, Arthur  _ stop,  _ please! Charles, you need to…”

He can’t hear John anymore, the blood rushing in his ears and the frantic pounding of his heart drowning everything out. He can’t feel his hands, and he thinks John might have broken his wrist with the force he’s using to pin down Arthur’s arms, but it doesn’t matter because he can’t  _ breathe.  _ There’s a goddamn glass shard stuck in his throat and it’s choking him and it  _ hurts.  _

Arthur’s vision becomes blurry, spiraling into a dark tunnel. His eyes are wet with tears he can’t help but shed, and he barely realizes he’s still trying in vain to pull away, still coughing and choking. 

The glass suddenly stops moving, but it’s still lodged in his skin and the pain doesn’t go away, still throbbing unbearably in time to his beating heart. 

There are two hands on his face now, cupping his jaw tight enough that it's almost painful, but it’s enough to get his attention, to break through the haze of pain and panic.

Arthur sucks in a ragged gasp, still tugging uselessly at his hands. Through blurred vision he’s just able to make out Charles, leaned in close, lips moving frantically, and Arthur thinks the other man looks furious. 

People are talking around them, voices blending together in a terrifying cloud of noise, and Arthur’s eyes start wandering, desperately trying to lock onto something. 

“Be  _ quiet!  _ Arthur!” 

And it’s the first noise he’s able to latch onto, Charles’s voice finally able to get through to him as the other noises die down. His hands tighten on either side of Arthur’s face, leaning closer so he has to meet Charles’s eyes again, and Arthur suddenly realizes the other man isn’t angry. He’s scared. 

“Right here, Arthur,” he begs. “Look at me. Look at me and calm  _ down.  _ Don’t think about it. Just breathe. Just breathe and listen to me. I’m right here, Arthur. Listen to my voice. Focus on my voice.” 

He’s back to holding Arthur’s face with one hand, but he doesn’t stop talking, doesn’t stop his mantra, and Arthur does all he can to obey, to block out everything except the words. 

The glass is moving again, slowly pulling and tugging through ripped, spasming skin. Arthur tenses, choking on a gasp, but Charles just stubbornly tightens his hold, keeping him where he is. 

“We should go hunting again,” Charles says, and he thinks it’s a strange thing to say, with the two of them practically pressed up against each other, Arthur feeling like he won’t be around much longer to go anywhere. “It was fun the last time we went.” 

‘Fun’ isn’t a word Arthur would have thought Charles would use to describe their last outing, especially not after how it had ended. They’d gotten what they’d come for, but the decimated bison corpses they’d found had sent Charles over the edge. They’d ended up killing two men. 

In the midst of the memory, Arthur feels the edges of the glass shard finally leave his skin, warm, sticky blood immediately pooling around the hole in his neck. It feels like there’s a rock shoved down his throat, and Arthur’s still coughing and choking as his vision momentarily darkens. 

His head is being tilted backwards, Charles replaced by the blue, cloudless sky. The position does little to help Arthur breathe, but he can feel something being pushed against his neck, quickly growing wet with his flowing blood. 

His hands are still held in place against his back, but one of John’s arms moves to wrap around his chest. It’s not meant to be confining, it’s a gesture of comfort.

And although Arthur knows he’ll never admit it aloud, it does something to help him come back down to earth, the contact keeping him grounded as Charles’s voice quiets down, the weight on his neck pushing down harder. 

Maybe he’s just too light headed to hear anything anymore. Maybe they’re still talking and he simply can’t hear their panicky, frantic reassurances. Maybe he’s still bleeding out. 

But the pressure eventually pulls away, the cold air making the tender wound sting. Arthur sucks in another breath, squeezing his eyes shut when he coughs again, his neck and shoulders caked in drying blood. 

But he’s not dead, not yet, and the pressure is back on the cut almost instantly, something soft being meticulously wrapped around his neck. It’s uncomfortably tight but Arthur knows better than to argue, and he’s too drained to pull away. 

“There we go,” Charles says, so close it almost makes Arthur jump. His head is carefully lowered back down, and Arthur winces at the slight pull. “That should stop the bleeding until we can get it stitched up properly.” 

John’s scooting back, just enough for Arthur to still lean against him and for feeling to finally come back into his arms. He reaches up, half expecting to find the shard still in his neck, still feeling the piercing pain in violent, throbbing waves. But he focuses on the voices beside him, shoving it to the back of his mind.

“Shouldn’t we be doing that now?” John asks, and Arthur feels Sean move off his legs. “Arthur, don’t touch it.” 

Arthur's hand drops back down to his side at John’s words, too tired to be annoyed. Charles is moving away from Arthur's chest to sit beside him, hand resting firmly on his arm. 

“I’m surprised I was able to do what I did,” he admits, humble, like he didn’t just save Arthur’s life. “I don’t trust myself to stitch that up. Hosea’s better to--” 

“Hosea?” Sean repeats, incredulous, back to his loud, brash self. “Why aren’t we taking him to a doctor?” 

“Sean--” 

“Look at the  _ size  _ of this fucking thing!” 

Sean’s suddenly holding up the glass shard, and Arthur’s stomach lurches dangerously. It’s almost the size of his palm, still dripping with dark crimson, and Arthur’s suddenly fighting against his gags, painfully aware throwing up will most likely be the worst thing for him at the moment. 

“Jesus, don’t let him  _ see  _ it!” 

“Put it down!” 

It feels like hours before Arthur is able to get ahold of himself, breathing shaky as he manages to swallow, finding the strength to wave the others off as they hover over him. 

“The kid’s right,” John says. “We should take him to a doctor. Make sure he ain’t gonna die on us.” 

Another time, Arthur would have argued. A part of him still wants to, his mind immediately going to the money they can’t afford to spend. But he feels awful, still convinced he’s about to choke on glass, and he lets John drape an arm around him. 

Charles moves to help, and Arthur sees something dangerous flash in his eyes, a hard set flame of determination. 

“He’s not dying,” Charles declares. He doesn't give Arthur a choice, his words set in stone. “Come on, Arthur. Let’s get you into town.” 

Sean’s already bringing the horses over, a sheepish smile on his face as he watches Arthur warily, worrying silently. They mount carefully, Arthur moving without question when Charles guides him to Taima and helps him on the saddle after him, each of his breaths still a wheezing, unsteady rattle.  

John and Sean wait until he’s settled, until they’re satisfied he isn’t going to keel over and choke on his own blood, before mounting their own horses. 

“Charles is right,” Sean says suddenly, swinging his legs over and riding beside them. “You’re not dying. Not until I get to see you grow old and gray, Arthur Morgan.” 

Arthur smiles, and it's ridiculous how the familiar teasing words set him at ease. Charles glances over his shoulder before turning his horse, the four of them setting off down the path. 

Arthur tries to thank them. He’s honestly not sure what for, but he tries anyway, doing all he can to force himself to form coherent words, but all that comes out is a pathetic wheeze that leaves him hunched over and practically clinging to Charles’s shoulders. The other man doesn’t seem to mind, pulling on the reins to slow their pace. 

“You’re ok, Arthur,” Charles says. “You’d do the same for any of us.” 

Arthur, still unable to talk and not willing to risk trying again, just turns his head to the side and coughs again, flinching when the pain worsens in a flash. 

But he’s not dying, he knows that, and the others do, too. 

“Come on, brother,” he hears John say. “Let’s go.” 

  
  


_ “Come on, brother!”  _

It was an odd memory for Arthur to be reliving, especially now of all times. It’s the first time his mind wanders to something other than the Pinkertons closing in on them, and it’s not even for something important. Just a house robbery gone wrong. 

It feels like a lifetime ago now.

But it’s what his slipping mind decides to lock onto, what he’s thinking about during what might be one of his last few waking moments, and he can’t help the ghost of a smile that comes with the heartbreak. 

Sean is dead. He never got to see the old, weak, man Arthur inevitably became, but he doesn’t think this is what the kid had been hoping to see, shaky and sick, barely strong enough to lift his gun. 

But Charles lived, he’d made it, he had a chance. It was one of the few good things Arthur had left to dwell on. He had to believe he’d gotten away, that the Pinkertons hadn’t tracked him down too. 

And John is going to live. It’s not a question, not something Arthur’s willing to let slip away. Not anymore. John will live, and he’s as sure of that as he is his own death. 

“Come on, Arthur!” 

He’s still thinking about that day, how John had pressed up against him, nearly breaking both his arms to keep him from hurting himself further. How he’d forced Arthur to keep himself alive. 

He’s thinking about Charles, gentle and steady, easing him back into the world as he quietly saved Arthur’s life, determined, like there’s no other choice but for Arthur to live. He thinks he understands the feeling now.

Maybe he’s drawn to that day all those months ago because it feels like there’s glass in his throat again. A million glass shards digging into his neck, and this time there’s no one to coax them out. Nobody to bring him to the other side. 

Maybe it’s simply a sign he’s dying. 

There’s glass in his throat, and there’s nobody left to pull it out. His family had shattered like a window, dead or in hiding, or blindly following Dutch into corruption. He can’t breathe, the shards sinking to his lungs.

John is still in front of him, still calling for him, still firing, always moving forward. He won’t let Arthur die, holding him steady to keep him alive as long as he can. 

It won’t last, won’t save his life, but for now, it’s enough. Enough to get him through his last few moments. 

Arthur raises his gun and starts forward, following John up the mountain he knows he’ll die on. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This was initially going to be a nice, happy story but I'm replaying the game and I have feelings. Thank you for reading!


End file.
